A Bitter Color
by Flipping Seltzer
Summary: Reese comes across Finch watching a softball game in the park. Or rather, watching someone play softball in the park. He investigates, drinks coffee, and learns a little about his mysterious friend. A drabble about Finch's possible past. Reese POV.


I disclaim.

AN: A little Person of Interest drabble I couldn't get out of my head. I like how they're exploring the personal side of Finch and I thought I'd take a little stab at the duo in a non-work scenario.

A Bitter Color

"Hello Finch."

For once, Harold jumped as John Reese eased out of the shadows and the ex-spy felt validated that he'd finally managed to sneak up on the computer genius. He handed the smaller man his tea and sat down next to him on the park bench. The mastermind took the hot beverage but glared at its delivery man, upset at the intrusion on his personal time. "I wasn't aware that I called you Mr. Reese. My phone must be acting up."

Reese smiled slightly at the idea of any technology 'acting up' under his companions intelligent fingers. "It must be." The two men sat quietly for a little while, sipping their drinks and enjoying the warming winter day. It was cool, but the sun was high and bright and the park was filled with New Yorkers happy that the slushy rain had finally dried. The park was dead and brown, trees stretching out their naked branches and the paths neatly littered with mounds of dead leaves. Some mushy piles of snow sat here and there, occasionally molested by an excited toddler or dog. The forecast was for snow tomorrow or the next day and stay at home parents were joined by business people, student, and artists as everyone rushed to enjoy the last bit sunshine before a few feet of precipitation fell. It was a workday, but almost everyone was playing hooky, indulging themselves.

It seemed that even criminals had taken a non-snow day. No numbers had come through since the end of last week, which was why Reese had been surprised to see Harold out and about. He'd almost walked on by, assuming that his benefactor was enjoying the day the same as everyone else. Even though he knew the wealthy man enjoyed the safety of his office, he was also aware that Finch stayed quite active, almost defying his injury. But the man's spectacled eyes were glued to a group of softball players on a nearby diamond.

It was unusual that Harold would care so much about such a, in Reese's opinion, a rather poorly played game.

So he'd walked to the coffee cart father down the path and doubled back, certain that something was going on when the normally hyper paranoid man didn't notice him either time. "What's the score?" He inquired casually, hoping that his friends distraction would continue.

"Three, one, but Claire's up next and..." The genius trailed off, turning to face John with a scowl. "That... was not fair, Mr. Reese."

"Neither is life Harold." The agent smiled fully now, happy when he saw the man's face twist into the unhappy, contemplative expression that meant he was going to grudgingly give up information. "Who's Claire?" He almost sang the words, tipping the dregs of his coffee back.

Finch nodded at the field. "The woman warming up. Pink shirt." Reese looked over, almost flinching as he took in the highlighter bright shirt. The subject of their discussion laughed, stretching a quad and chatting to a man in his mid-forties. She looked to be about the same age, possibly a little younger, John mused, watching as she easily stretched. That or she worked out rather regularly- possibly yoga, but definitely a runner of some sort. She was a smaller person, her face and lower stomach pleasantly chubby but the rest of her lean and muscled. Brown hair was tucked up in a yellow knit cap and the rest of her outfit was a varied clash of color. She was an ideal surveillance subject, you wouldn't be able to miss her in a crowd even as a inexperienced agent. She trotted up to home plate and in a few pitches had smacked the ball hard to the outfield, driving in two runs just as Finch had predicted. The genius smiled as she did so, lightly tapping his knee in quiet celebration. "She always does well." He said, not taking his eyes off her bouncing figure, happily taunting the competition.

"Who is she Finch? One of your numbers?" He didn't think the man would keep a victim from him but you never knew with enigmatic creator.

"No." Harold snapped. "No, she's not a number. Not her."

Clearly the man was a little sensitive so John didn't push it, gently inquiring again. "Who then?"

His friend pinched his lips together for a moment but slowly answered, cautiously, as if Reese would mock his words. "She... Claire is... Claire's part of my old life. Before the numbers. Before the machine." He rubbed his knee. "Before, when I wasn't, when I could..." He stopped, clearly trying to gather his thoughts before he went on. "I used to run a great deal, prior to my injury. I've always enjoyed exploring the city on foot, particularly when I was in the middle of a large project, because it was a good way to clear my mind. Some of my more brilliant ideas were realized mid run and even the machine-" He paused again, realizing that he was giving away too much. He cleared his throat and nodded toward the pink blur that was currently rounding third. "Running along the Hudson was a particular favorite of mine. That's where I met Claire- she has an apartment in Yonkers, or at least she did, four years ago, and ran the same route, along the Metro North. She always wore this ridiculous yellow hat and I noticed her, after a while, because it was so hideous."

John looked at the woman's headwear, decorated with an ugly red pompom, and silently agreed, but didn't dare speak for fear of breaking Finch's recollection. "She must have seen me looking, because a few runs later she stopped me, asked if I was some sort of pervert." He chuckled. "I convinced her that I wasn't and asked her if she'd like to run together. So that's what we did, for a few months. Ran and talked. She owns a sandwich shop in the Bronx. Her father was a beat cop and her mother's a teacher. Her favorite color is yellow and her niece bought her that ugly hat for Christmas. She drinks strawberry Gatorade, hates poodles, and has lived here her whole life. She's never even left the East Coast- can you imagine?

"I used to joke that I'd take her somewhere, someday, and we wouldn't do anything but run. No sightseeing, just run around the city. Every day, we'd come up with some place more outrageous. Lichtenstein, Pompeii, Beirut... anyplace we could think of. It was just so...normal. 'She' was so normal."

They were quiet, watching the players pause to enjoy their beers and fool around. Claire sat down on the field, rubbing her hands together in-between swigs of cheap alcohol. John tried to imagine Finch next to her, drinking straight out of a bottle and talking to carpenters and elementary teachers and policemen. He couldn't see it, but then again, he'd never seen Finch in anything but those ugly suits he always wore so maybe it was a reference issue. "What happened Harold?" He asked softly, sensing he was going to have to press his companion. "Harold?"

The man rubbed his knee again. "I got hurt! I was..." He fluttered a hand over himself, "I can't run, not anymore. She must have thought... One day, I just didn't show up. I couldn't move for... for a long time and I don't even know what she thought."

"Did you go back? Tell her what happened?" Reese already knew the answer, but he figured that his friend probably needed to say it aloud.

"Of course not! Months later, me just showing up... I didn't even know her phone number, her last name." He sighed. "I did go back Mr. Reese. Every day for a week. She wasn't there."

Reese inclined his head. "You're the best hacker I've ever met Finch. You have advanced technology and private investigators at your fingertips- you could've found her."

Rubbing his eyes under his glasses the other man conceded his point. "Yes. You're correct. I could've found her- but I didn't. She was the one part of my life that wasn't deception or work and it felt...wrong to, to sully that. She's done nothing to warrant that invasion Mr. Reese, not like us." The game resumed and the players scattered, Claire aimlessly wandering to third base, where she stored her beer behind the base and slipped on a glove. "I found her quite by accident, a few weeks after I found you. I was purchasing a tea and saw her hat. It's rather...unique." He smirked wryly. "They play every Sunday, or whenever the weather is especially nice. She's not always here but when she is..." He trailed off, eyes tracking her throw to first.

'I understand.' That's what Reese wanted to say, but he knew the smaller man wouldn't welcome his compassion. Harold was a proud person and John knew his character well enough to know that he didn't see this as an act worthy of sympathy. Finch was leaving the woman alone because he thought he was a danger to be around and John couldn't say he disagreed. This, watching the woman enjoy herself with her friends, was enough for the inventor.

The thing that John didn't understand, the issue that was unsaid, was that Finch was ashamed. Ashamed that... whatever...happened, happened and thought that the woman wouldn't want anything to do with him if he couldn't exercise with her.

Which was nonsense.

John was certainly no savant when it came to women and had made his share of bad calls and judgments, but he knew that women didn't approach men without good reason. If she'd really thought Finch was a danger she would have changed routes or times- the daughter of a cop would know better. She wouldn't have talked to him about her life or played that game with him, unless she liked him. Having a pacer was useful, but no one said you had to talk to them. No, he was certain that Miss Claire had liked Finch for more than his running habits.

But the man was too insecure to recognize that. It was probably for the best though. Reese knew what happened when you got too attached to people- you can't save everyone and you especially can't save the people you care about the most. Because there will be day when it's the good of the many or the good of the one, to paraphrase Mr. Spock, and you have to choose the many. And it kills you.

Better to not let yourself get too attached. Especially to women who wore clashing colors and made sandwiches and wouldn't understand.

So they sat on the bench, the spy and the mastermind, watching the game. After a while, Reese realized that its wasn't that the players were bad, but that they weren't really playing by any actual rules and were exceptionally drunk. Claire was a good player, probably because she wasn't chugging anything, but she was by no means the best of the group. Eventually the sun dropped lower and the air grew colder. Puffs of breath could be seen a little while later and the game ended with no discernable winner, although Reese was sure Finch could tell him how many times each player had crossed the plate. A pink and yellow blur jogged by them, juggling glove and bat.

She didn't notice them, didn't do a double-take, or look back. Despite himself, John was a little disappointed.

Finch stood, awkwardly, stiff from sitting so long. Reese looked away, not wanting to embarrass his friend by staring at his hobbling. Once the computer man had his feet the tall man stood, tossing their trash in a nearby trashcan. They walked away, John purposefully slowing his steps to keep time with the shorter man. They didn't discuss Claire, didn't discuss anything, just walked out of the park, admiring the beauty of the quickly abandoned wildness in the middle of the city. "It was a good game Harold." Reese said quietly, purposefully admiring a squirrel.

A beat passed and then, "Yes. Yes, John it was."


End file.
